


Reunion

by raleighpuppy



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Flashbacks, I'm sorry this is sad, Max isn't doing well, Mental Disintegration, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Post-Movie(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 07:27:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4598049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raleighpuppy/pseuds/raleighpuppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After years, Max finally returns. It's not a happy reunion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> So this is not a happy fic. As you can see from the tags, Max is a mess. There's self-harm, flashbacks, he's physically sick, and someone dies. 
> 
> Either way, I hope it's a good read.

Max doesn't return to the Citadel; he doesn't promise anything more than he's already given and they even doubted he'd really help them at first-- he didn't have to; he could've killed them and run-- and be definitely doesn't promise a return when he steals a motorbike and disappears into the Wasteland. Furiosa hopes he'll return someday, but he doesn't. 

When Max comes back, it's more of a rescue than a return. 

He's unconscious-- Cheedo and a patrol of War Boys, just called Boys now, found him lying in the sands out in the open with no vehicle in sight-- when he's carried in and Furiosa can hardly recognize him. He's too thin, emaciated, filthy, his hair's too long, and he has a beard. Crinkles at the corners of his eyes give away the pain he's in, as does his posture; he's curled in on himself. And his breathing is wrong and too loud. He coughs and shakes and, judging from the pallor of his skin, he's sick. 

"He was like this when you found him?" Furiosa asks, pressing her flesh-and-bone hand to his forehead. He's too warm. 

Cheedo nods. "Yes, and he was face-down in a sand dune." 

~~~~~

Max wakes up on something too soft to be sand and there's something on top of him and he panics, kicking and screaming and clawing at himself. There's something next to him, something human-shaped, and he doesn't know what it is, whether or not it's real, and he swings. It catches his hand, so he pulls. 

"Max!" it shouts. "Max!"

It's indistinguishable from the noise in his head, the chorus of Max! Max! Why didn't you help us? And he gags, but nothing comes up; he hasn't eaten in so long and there's nothing in his stomach to come up. There's something on his back and he stiffens, and then there are many somethings on his back and arms and legs and stomach all touching him, prodding, feeling, attempting to drag him down, and he tries to shake them off, screams. He vaguely remembers being held down once by many many hands all over him and a sharp pain on his back. A tattoo. They tattooed his back. 

Furiosa jumps back as Max rolls out of the bed. He attempts to get up, but he's shaking so much he can't. Eventually, he gives in and lies still, but his hands shake and he still breathes too heavily. 

"Max?" she asks.

He whines, a pitiful sound. And she curses under her breath because he's a mess. And she's scared, but she won't let him see that. 

He avoids her touch, won't let her try to check him for wounds, doesn't speak, refuses food, and tries to bite anyone who touches him. 

"Max?"

No reply. No indication he's understood what she's said. 

He's frozen in place, lying on his side on the ground-- he won't move and won't accept help-- with his eyes, although cloudy, locked on the doorway. And she leaves because she can't look at him much longer.

"Is it him?" Capable asks.

Furiosa nods.

"How is he?"

"Worse than when we met him," she answers. 

~~~~~~~

Max wakes up in an unfamiliar place and his entire body aches, especially his head, and his ears are buzzing. The early morning light filters in, allowing him to see his surroundings. Indoors. He's still indoors.

And his arms, already raw, itch like something awful, so he furiously scratches, so absorbed in the harsh, repetitive motion he doesn't hear Furiosa open the door. He whines deep in his throat as he scratches and scratches and scratches his arms, drawing blood that smears all over his hands.

"Max!" 

She curses, setting down a tray of food on his bed, and then crouching next to him. Her fingers, flesh-and-bone and mechanical, curl around his arms and pull them so he can't scratch himself anymore. 

"Max, don't do this." Her voice waivers. 

Max leans so his forehead presses against her leg, despite the awkward angle, and closes his eyes. He's terribly tense and she wants to touch him, to work some of it out, but she doesn't want to scare him away. He's flighty, obviously very sick, and confused. The way his hands shake and his breaths hitch bother her. 

"Max, can you hear me?" she asks. "Do you want something to eat?" 

He doesn't move; they spend the rest of the day on the ground.

~~~~~~~~~~

He's irritable, pacing in circles even before the sun rises, and Furiosa knows it's going to be a horrendously bad day as soon as she pushes open the door with a tray of food in hand-- the tray from yesterday remains on the bed untouched; he slept on the floor again-- and sees him pacing. His arms are red and the skin's irritated, and there's new blood on his hands and even around his mouth. 

"Max?"

He turns to face her, but she can tell he's not really looking at her. He may be staring in her general direction, but she can tell he's gone by the way his head's tilted to the side, the far-away look in his eyes, and how he barely blinks, which is odd for him. 

She raises her arm, and then he's on her with a adequately-sized piece of wood she doesn't know how he got a hold of. It hits her a few seconds later; it's a weapon. 

"Max!" she shouts, easily hitting him to the side in his weakened state. "Max, stop!" 

Max struggles to his feet, but attacks again, screaming. He's shaking and it's the whole body kind of shake, and he's struggling to keep his eyes open. And he attacks anyway, screaming that he's tried, he's tried to help. 

Again, she easily pushes him back, but he only becomes increasingly agitated and yells more, now beginning to wave his arms, and then scratch at his arms again. 

"Max," she says. "Max, you're in the Citadel. It's me, Furiosa. You're safe. You didn't fail. You did it! We're okay because of you." 

Her hand hovers about her waist near the holster where she always keeps a gun, even within the safe Citadel walls. She's always armed. And she doesn't want to shoot Max, not after everything, but the safety of the Sisters, of the Wretched, of the Milk Mothers, and of Boys and Pups comes first, comes before sentimentality. Even if Max made this all possible. 

Suddenly, he turns around, brandishing the silver of wood again, and she draws, pointing the gun at him. Her hands tremble more than they ever have before and she's vaguely aware of the fact she's crying. Max doesn't stop. And she knows he's confused, that he doesn't know where he is or why or who she is or what the hell's going on. He's physically sick too. 

She likes to think he'd want to be put down in this state.

She closes her eyes as he draws nearer, prays she'll kill him before he kills her-- she can't believe she'd ever pray for Max to be dead, not her Fool-- and pulls the trigger. 

When she opens her eyes, she's still alive and she takes a shaky breath when she sees him. 

Max lies on the floor in what must be the most uncomfortable position ever with both eyes wide open and confused and blood oozing from an entrance wound on the side of his head. 

Furiosa falls to her knees and screams, a horrible and broken sound, for the second time.


End file.
